Only a few days had passed since my son’s funeral, and I still hadn’t figured out how people were supposed to return to ordinary life after burying their child.
One moment, sixteen-year-old Preston had been riding his bike home from his best friend’s house.
The next, a police officer was calling me.
“Mrs. Hale, I’m very sorry. There was an accident. Your son didn’t survive.”
Even now, I could hear the careful way he said those words, as though speaking softly might somehow make them less permanent.
Preston had spent that afternoon with his best friend, Kieran. The boys had been almost inseparable since Kieran moved into our area three years earlier and transferred to Preston’s school.
They were different in nearly every way. Preston was thoughtful and quiet, the kind of boy who could spend ten minutes deciding how to answer a simple question. Kieran talked fast, laughed loudly, and usually said whatever entered his head before considering whether he should.
Somehow, it worked.
That evening, Preston had promised to be home before dark.